


Home Sweet Home

by fewlmewn



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Scouring the wilderness looking for answers is hard enough as it is, and at the end of the day he just wants to go back home and rest in his lover's arms.
Relationships: Crassius Curio/Male Nerevarine
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Home Sweet Home

I still feel the ash and grit between every scale when I step down from the Silt Strider a few paces from Vivec, and the way the grains dig uncomfortably into my soft skin makes me even more restless. A few people try to make conversation when they see me walk by, but I urgently excuse myself and beeline for the gondola, if anything to feel the droplets of stale water upon my weary face as I travel between the cantons at breakneck speed. By the Hist, I’m tired. I almost got my eyes plucked out by a flock of Cliff Racers after getting swarmed near Ald’ruhn, and I had to dive into a hole in the ground to wait them out. The soil was slightly damper and decidedly cooler below the earth, but hearing their talons and beaks scratching at the walls of the refuge I’d found didn’t make for a very restful night. I’m just glad I made it back to Ald’ruhn in one piece, and if I fell asleep on the way south, Navam knows me well enough by now to keep it for himself. The man definitely has a gentle touch with the Strider, and the journey was smooth.

My knuckles are cracked and caked with dry blood - most of it not mine, luckily - and my eyes can’t stop stinging, no matter how I try to clear them out with the frantic fluttering of my inner lids, and my tongue can’t reach that high. I step off the boat, toss a couple of drakes to the gondolier - another old friend - and make the climb up to Hlaalu Plaza.

I like the sun and I like the water, but for being an island, Vvardenfell lacks in both departments, or at least I can never seem to find both in the same place. It’s either scorching desert ashlands, or muggy desolate bogs. Inside the district it’s no better, but at least here I can catch my breath. I make my way to Curio Manor, offering simple greetings to the attendants and the other members of the family I meet inside, and quickly make for Crassius’ chamber.

I find him sitting upon a cushioned chair next to his desk, reading in a carefully studied pose that screams “intellectual” and “patron of the arts”, but it’s all a front I know he put up when he heard me coming through the front door. Not that he isn’t what he wants everyone to believe - he’s just too fond of theatrics to let the chance slip by him to say,

“Oh, I didn’t see you there! Back so soon, dumpling?”

I slide my backpack from my shoulder with a wince, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor, and lean against the chair opposite his without sitting fully, my knees too scraped and scabbed-over to comfortably lounge as I’d want to. I grunt affirmatively, sore and stiff everywhere.

“Dear, that just won’t do! Bronosa, can you fetch the vintage for our dumpling, here?” I hear clattering from upstairs, of glassware moved around the remnants of their late lunch. After a moment, Bronosa steps in, bringing the bottle and two deep blue glass chalices for us, and gently closes the door behind herself on her way out.

I notice my hands trembling as I go to pour us the wine, nearly spilling the undoubtedly pricey Cyrodiilic vintage Crassius had sent directly from the Imperial City. He notices it, notices my brow furrowing, and kindly pries the bottle from my hand, unclasping it with some effort.

“Here, let me…” he says, pouring himself a glass and handing the bottle back to me.

“Ah” his gesture comes as a surprise. He knows I’m in no condition to balance a delicate crystal chalice to my cracked lips. Chugging from the neck of the bottle is far easier, if a bit messy. It’s kind of heart-warming that he doesn’t care if I end up spilling wine all over his floor.

It’s rich and pleasant, a full-bodied red that immediately wets my parched throat. I smack my lips after taking a few long drags and sigh, finally relaxing into the chair, still a bit askew.

“That bad, uh?” he chuckles, taking it from my fingers before I drop the nearly empty bottle.

“Blasted beasts. I swear, if anyone could kill them all, it'd be a miracle and they should be made saint for it. Saint, I say! I can’t fucking stand them. They chase you - they see you from a mile out and stalk you, wear you down… Ugh.”

“Language, dumpling there’s no need to get so worked up about it now. You’re safe here with your uncle Crassius. I’ll take care of you, just say the word.” he puts a hand over mine. His is soft and chubby, smooth from handling coin, papers and little else, He’s wont to wear many jewels, choosing from different styles depending on his outfit or on who he needs to impress on any given occasion, but today he’s only wearing the Hlaalu signet ring on his pinky, and the rough-and-tumble band I put together before leaving, last time. It’s nothing too intricate; I’m no jeweler, but hammering a Dwarven coin into a ring shape, twisting it so it looks a bit nicer than a simple strip of metal, is something even I in my lacking experience was able to do. He wears it proudly, it seems, on his middle finger. It chafed a little, I can almost see some redness around it where it sticks out awkwardly (I should offer to fix it), but he still wears it. What a sap. Him, and I both. I should get a precious gem to have set into the band, like a nice river pearl or something unique. Perhaps a tiny shard of ebony - oh my, could you imagine the scandal? But there’s history in that for us, so it would be meaningful.

“Right,” I reply, cleaning my mouth with a sleeve. I look around the room, trying to catch my bearings. This is safe, it’s private. Everybody probably left on some errand, and only the staff and Bronosa are still in the manor, hanging around as far from Crassius’ room as the floorplan allows. “A soak would be nice.”

“It would be very nice indeed! Use the guest room to get comfortable while I call for a bath and to get your laundry done. You’ll be in tip-top shape in no time, leave it to uncle Crassius.” Rising from his chair, he kisses my forehead on his way out. I feel warmer inside already, and I head next door to get changed into a spare robe, which of course is very on-brand: sleek peach-colored silk with a white embroidered kanet motif. Tasteful and tacky at the same time - how he manages to commission such garments is beyond me, but it feels like heaven upon my scales. I take a minute to rinse my eyes in the washbasin, and finally it doesn’t sting to keep them open, now that the grit’s been washed away.

I return with my dirty laundry in a bundle, and one of Crassius’ housekeepers takes it from me, gesturing to his room before disappearing to the depths of the manor.

Of course he got comfortable too, shedding his silk overcoat and rolling up his shirt sleeves. His trousers are gone, leaving him in long linen underpants. I can see the contours of his thighs filling the loose-fitting underwear, and I lovingly steal a gaze at the curve of his soft belly and generous backside.

I take in the room, then, and notice that every available candlestick and chandelier has been piled upon the nightstand and the dresser to make that corner of the room into a candle-lit altar, which gives off both romantic and funereal vibes. The Hlaalu signet ring lies forgotten on the other bedside table, next to the pocket-sized journal of blank pages he usually scribbles late-night rhymes into. And he’s barefoot, sauntering about the room to fetch a stool he places next to the wooden tub, which steams with hot water.

I shed my robe without embarrassment - it’s nothing he hasn’t seen already - and slowly I step into the tub, lowering my body with a grunt of pleasure.

“Hot.” I rasp, my focus directed towards ignoring the initial sting of too-high temperature.

“Yes, indeed. Too much?” he inquires, with a hint of worry in his musical voice.

“No, it’ll be fine… means I can stay longer.”

“You can stay as much as you want, dumpling.” He strokes down my arm where it’s hooked around the tub’s rim. When his well manicured nails catch on a cracked scale, I can’t help but hiss, unsure if it’s from discomfort or much needed relief. I itch absolutely everywhere, and I realize that a few spots on my body need a good scrub, to allow the old, scarred skin to loosen and fall away and reveal the new, shiny scales I’ve developed since suffering this or that injury. I’ve been traipsing up and down the Foyada gathering dirt and neglecting absolutely everything about my appearance; if I didn’t know how much Crassius enjoys playing the bathhouse attendant with me, I’d feel bashful of subjecting him to such a sore sight.

“Have you got any toiletries?” I ask, realizing too late my mistake.

“Why yes, dear! I wouldn’t think you the kind to ask for such amenities, but I do have a decent collection of bath oils and lotions.” with glee, he springs up and claps his hands.

“A hard-bristled brush and some soap will do.”   
“Nonsense, let me treat you.”

He steps away to rummage through the bottom drawers of his dresser. The loose-fitting hose stretches around his legs when he crouches, and I see the shape of his rump, so round and full, and I itch to get my hands on him, to enjoy fistfuls of pale, supple flesh. Soon, I hope.

When he returns after a few minutes of monologuing about the benefits of this or that essential oil, he doesn’t leave me enough time to ask what he has in his hand that already he’s pouring a fragrant liquid into the bath water. I sniff the air, and I’m pleased to find it’s not one of his preposterous perfumes. Just rosemary, and something else medicinal I can’t tell apart in the aromatic miasma filling the room. But it’s soothing.

In his hands is also a narrow, long towel, made of natural fibers that look coarse and wiry, but soon become softer when he dips the rag into the water. Wrapping it around a soap bar, he rubs it in his hands until it creates a gentle lather, not foamy but more like fatty, dense white suds. Sload soap.

“Here, give me your arm.” sitting on his stool, legs spread near-obscenely wide to accommodate the side of the tub in a lecherous display he fails or refuses to acknowledge, he gently holds my hand to keep my arm outstretched. He swipes the moistened cloth up and down the length of it, and it catches in all the right places. I relax and sink deeper into the water, closing my eyes and just letting Crassius take care of me.

He strokes between my fingers, taking care with the fragile webbing and my battered knuckles; he conjures a fine-tipped metal tool and goes about removing the grime from under my worn claws. He moves the towel up to my armpit, cleaning the softer folds of skin that connect to my torso. Then I hear the stool scrape against the floor. He moves to the other side, picks up my slack arm, and starts all over again. I melt into the ministrations, the scratching and massaging almost arousing in their simplicity and, before I realize it, I’m dozing off, thinking about his hands touching everywhere at once, pressing into sore muscles until exhaustion melts away.

“Wake up, dumpling, time to scrub down that gorgeous back of yours.”

I sit up with a displeased grunt, but his bare touch against the ridge of my spine feels so nice that I don’t have it in me to protest it.

The cloth returns, with more of that almost slimy lather, but now he works it in circles all over my back, dislodging dirt, cracked scales and even some blades of grass from where I had to bunk down in the grazelands without a bedroll, nearly a month ago now. It’s curious how dirty an adventurer can get out in the wilderness. I’m lucky I can rely on some luxuries here at the manor, when I can chance to stop by.

At some point, the cloth disappears and I feel oil drip down my neck, a pungent minty smell hitting my nostrils.

“This should help with the itching. I’ve asked around while you were gone, and I’ve been told this type of ointment softens the skin, especially for your kind. Should be harmless - I doubt a perfumer from the Mainland would sell me dubiously-concealed poisons. But do let me know if it does anything at all. I still wouldn’t put it past her to sell me something completely mundane and useless, passed off as a miraculous Argonian lotion.” he scoffs, working the oil into my skin with his bare fingers. It tingles, and I can feel it seep between the scales, into the pale weave of my flesh, and I feel sensitive yet revitalized, like a hatchling who’s just gone through their first molt.

“It’s… different. But pleasant. Smells nice. I don’t know if it’s the oil or your skill, but I feel all loose-limbed already. My neck could use some care, too...”

“Say no more, dumpling.”

His lips chase after his hands, uncaring of how much grime is still unwashed, lodged in the nooks of my throat skin, piled in the hollow of my collarbones. With wet lips, he kisses under my ear holes, along my jaw. Follows the line up to my vestigial ears, nosing the frills there and dipping behind them where I must taste like swamp and wet earth. With nimble, oiled fingers, he presses along every ridge down my neck and to where the water surface starts. He works the “miraculous” lotion between every scale over my shoulder blades, and sneakily pushes his hands under my arms to hug me awkwardly from behind.

Whispering, he says, “So beautiful, my dear. So brave. I’ll take care of you. You’re my muse, every day I don’t see you walk through my door, is one more day I despair. I’m so glad you’ve returned to me,” and more such saccharine words, warming me up more than the near-boiling water ever could.

After a while, he moves his stool down the tub, and urges me to hoist my legs up the edge so he can start scrubbing them down. Having walked all over Vvardenfell barefooted, I know it’s a desperate task, but if he wishes to endeavor to perform it, I won’t stop him.

Dirt softened from soaking in the tub for nearly half an hour already, the process is simpler than expected, and more of that tangy oil is poured between my toes and along my calves. My muscles twitch from overexertion, the strain of the journey starting to take a toll on me. Quick-witted as he is, Crassius notices this, and doesn’t linger too much.

“You can set your feet back into the tub. I don’t mind getting a little wet for your sake.”

“How chivalrous.”

“Ha! You shouldn’t say that… after all, do you know my true intent? It’s anything but...”

He smirks, before plunging his arms into the now slightly murky and foamy water to his elbows, uncaring of the cuffs of his shirt getting drenched. Quickly, his hands take a hold of my legs with a tight grip, and he starts stroking up and down my thighs, venturing closer and closer to my groin with each pass. He’s none too gentle, knowing exactly what I like, running his short nails across the grooves between the larger scales on my body, circling them with deft fingers like they’re misshapen puzzle pieces he’s eager to fit together.

The vigorous massage makes my tense thighs feel more pliant, and I instinctively spread my legs, relaxing and sinking into the filthy water even more. His hands start groping the crook of my groin, where my leg meets the hip. His pose is awkward, sitting astride the stool but holding himself aloft, almost his full weight pressed into the intense grip he has around my waist, like he’s scrubbing stubborn stains from laundry.

His touch is strong enough to tickle, fingers massaging spots seldom touched otherwise. I never touch myself aside from cursory cleansing passes; and even then, only when I find a lakeside spot quiet enough and with water clear enough that I can trust it with my personal hygiene. Crassius' attention is more than welcome, and sorely needed.

“There, darling. All mellow and soft for me… would you let me see you now? Your pearl?” he asks, voice low and edging between shy and mischievous. I crack an eye open and see fire in his gaze; he licks his lips under his moustache, and smiles almost innocently.

I moan, lazily nodding, “Yesss, go on.”

“Excellent. Stand for me?”

I move- or rather, my body moves of its own accord, chasing promises. Water is dripping down my torso, my legs, and back into the tub, its pitter-patter overpowered by a symphony of sweet words. “I can’t wait to touch you” and “I can’t wait to taste you” over and over, murmured in secret as he grabs a jug and rinses me, fresh, clean water poured over my body and carrying away what’s left of his thorough bath. I look down my arms and legs to see the spots where new, healthy scales have been revealed underneath the old, damaged ones his bath managed to get rid of. I shimmer in spots, like sunlight breaking through the canopy; the aged swamp green revealing patches of verdant, aquamarine keratinous skin where the scales are young and softer - more sensitive.

Then, his hands are back over my pelvis, and he looks up to me like I’m a statue, like I’m divine. It’s a heady feeling, and I feel dizzy when I see the passion in his eyes. His fingers circle my hips and with his thumbs, he bears down gently where the scales run tighter, along the seam of my slit. It takes nearly no pressure at all - which would be embarrassing with any other lover, but I don’t mind showing him how much I needed this, how eager I truly am - and I begin to open. The mound parts, revealing pale tendons and the opening of my cloaca; when he presses with the pads of his fingers, my prick springs out without ceremony.

“Ah!” I whimper at the sudden release and I feel the muscles in my groin tense, locking my erection in place for him to see freely.

“Wonderful, how wonderful!” he gleefully announces, taking one hand away from my hip to place it just below my slit, his fingers forming a ‘V’ that frames my turgid prick. “The most beautiful pearl of all.”

He’s jubilant, and a rosy blush mounts from the open buttons of his shirt, upwards across his neck and to color his cheeks. I watch from above as he comes close to my groin, mesmerized. His tongue feels hot where it caresses the tip, but that’s the extent of it. While not particularly pleasurable for me, I know how excited this makes Crassius, so he’s always welcome to lick and suck his fill. I’m usually happy to just let him curl up on my lap with my prick settled behind his locked lips as he lazily fingers me until we both fall asleep, but today I’d rather entertain more involved activities.

“It wasn’t made for looking at.” I tell his adoring face.

“But of course, where are my manners! You must be weary from your journeys, let’s not wait any longer!” and yet, while his mouth says one thing, it does another, the little minx! Because next, he dives into the soft flesh within my slit, paying homage to the salty folds with open-mouthed kisses. I’m far more susceptible to any attention paid to my front hole, and I feel arousal pervade me with every moment that passes with Crassius enthusiastically redoubling his efforts. His tongue stiffens as it tries to pry inside the too-small hole of my cloaca, and yet he chases the taste of the sea, making me squirm with pleasure. The forceful motions stoke my own desire and I’m restless to move things forward.

“Crassiusss…. please, cease this torture. I want you to take me apart, I’ve been waiting so long.”

“Oh, dumpling, I’m afraid I might not be up to the task right now. I’ve just dined, you see. But I know how to please you, fear not.” I’m not going to force him, of course, I know that strenuous activity right after the meals doesn’t sit well with him, so that will have to wait until later tonight. I know enough about him to trust his skill as a lover in other departments. I know he can take care of me in other ways.

“It was worth asking. Don’t worry… I  _ might _ be able to wait until the evening, but you need to give me something good now so I can resist a while longer. The road is such a lonely place to travel...”

“Certainly, I won’t disappoint. And if I do, you’re welcome to tie me up and punish me as you see fit, dumpling.” Memories of roughhousing and red welts across his back and soft thighs swim in my memory, and although I enjoy that kind of play, some affection and tender care are more urgent at the moment.

“Ah, that again? Alright, maybe another day. I’m sure anything you’ll do today will please me. I’m ready, dear.”

“Then, kneel in the tub and hold onto the rim. Just like that, let me see that shapely rump of yours, dumpling.”

I do as he asks, ready for the onslaught that is sure to follow.

The water is lukewarm, and my prick is still viciously hard just under the surface, but I try to focus on his voice, his hands and his tongue.

“Here there’s another kind of pearl, certainly! But no less beautiful.” He grasps my tail with a brusque grip, and moves it out of the way, no doubt hoisting it over his shoulder. The purposeful motion makes me shiver with desire. I feel one hand caressing the underside of my tail, inching ever closer to the spot where it joins the base, and his other hand is massaging my buttock. He hums pensively while he weights it on his palm, like he’s somehow comparing how much more muscular my ass has gotten since last time. With all that running from the Racers, I reckon the difference could be noticeable.

Then, without preamble, I hear the smack of lips, followed by the feeling of a slick finger running around the rim of my hole, tenderly massaging it with circular motions that make me feel wanton and lewd. “Yesss, there it isss…” I hiss.

“Come on, dear, let me see the softness of you… Show me your secrets.” he uses both hands to spread the globes of my ass, to better see what’s nestled in between. I can just picture his glimmering eyes as they survey the pale sections of tender flesh that run up the underside of my tail and merge into my crack, like a paved road.

My muscles relax, I let myself be supported by his hands, and I can feel my hole giving, blinking open under his gaze.

“Ah, yes, you’re ready, aren’t you? You want this, want my tongue and fingers inside, tasting you, sucking your pucker until you’re crying with pleasure?”

“Yesss, yesss! I’ve missed it- you, so much. Need it, want you to open me up, play with me.”

“I got you, dumpling. As much as I love hearing you beg, I don’t want you to worry about a thing while you’re here. Let me care for you.” His filthy words make me even harder, but more than that, they make my hole flutter with true, unadulterated need. It’s just as well that he finally stops talking and puts his mouth to good use, settling his full lips in a seal around the rim.

“Oh, finally! Finally! Dear… oh! Yesss, aren’t you voracious? Like a hatchling with Hist sap, like you were made for it.” My mouth runs from me, and as I close my eyes I nearly feel them roll back in ecstasy when his tongue finally breaches inside - inquisitive and so smooth and warm. It’s always strange, a different sensation, but within a minute I’ve grown accustomed to it, and couldn’t imagine living without.

With a final strong suction, he stops the onslaught - but it’s only to ask me to dry my legs off with the towel and get on my hands and knees on the bed, “Spread your legs, show me your hole. There you go, sway that gorgeous tail for me, dumpling. So strong, so sensual. One day, when time’s on our side, I’ll have you fuck me with it - I must know how it feels pushing into me.”

“Oh, by the- you cannot sssay things like that, I won’t be able to control myssself.” I grunt, the mental image so powerful and crystal clear I can almost feel the warmth of his body around the tip of my tail.

“Mmm, it’s just an idea to save for later. You have no clue how much I love this body, how much I love you. By the Nine, the things I would do to you- the things I’d have you do to me are endless.”

“You’re too adventurous for your own good, Crassius dear. Now, be good and get back in your place, you’re not done preparing me for the ‘plug’... “ I turn to look at him over my shoulder, and understanding dawns on him when I smirk, pointy teeth shimmering by candlelight.

“Oh, you want the- But of course, let me work you open, then. I had no idea! Certainly darling, I’ll make you nice and mellow, stretch you wide so you can take my gifts.” he’s quick to say, as his fingers return to play with my hole, a thumb and index pulling and caressing the tender flesh.

My tail relaxes down his back, the heft of it something for him to focus on as he undoubtedly loses himself in the musk of my hole.

By the time he’s done - tongue delving deep, followed by fingers, until four of them can snugly fit inside to the base, the knuckles nudging the perineum that leads to my front slit and massaging me from the outside - I’m nearly delirious with arousal.

“Crassiusss, give me your ssseed.”

“Right away, dear, here comes…” I hear him frantically lower his hose, and when I look under my arm across to him, I see the angry red prick spring forth - hard like metal. With three quick strokes, he’s groaning and singing, the cockhead positioned so that it touches my hole until it’s just sitting snugly against it. With a choked-off moan, I can feel the pulses of spent paint the inner walls of my gaping hole, and nothing escapes the tight seal. With a tender sigh, he leisurely fucks just barely inside, the head not even breaching - just enough to tease. Then, he runs his prick around the puffy rim until he grows too sensitive, and stands back with an hiss.

“There, all nice and sown. How is it?”

“Feels good, warm and plentiful.”

“I’ve been keeping myself in case you came back. It’s good to know the effort was appreciated.”

“Very. Now be a dear and fetch the toy, I don’t want any of your preciousss seed to go to waste.” I raise my hips even higher, to prevent any of the spent from dripping out, and I make circles in the air with my tail, my head swaying from side to side, content.

He scrambles down the bed and fetches the glass plug from the bottom-most drawer of what we’ve gotten used to calling ‘my’ bedside table. It houses mostly implements we use when Crassius is indisposed or to spice things up, and that’s also where I keep some of my prized possessions. A copy of ‘The Three-Legged Guar’ (ever the source of inspiration) with a drawn postcard-sized portrait of Crassius’ bare body - from bellybutton to the hips, with a proudly standing cock portrayed in great detail, smack-dab in the center of the canvas - that I use as a bookmark when I find myself reading at night and he’s busy on the other side of Vivec, playing House Father to the families. Fond memories.

The faint herbal smell of oil returns as he quickly spreads a small amount over the bulging width of the plug, ever the considerate lover, even if I can feel my hole well-stretched, wet and welcoming already.

“Here I am. It’s quite the stretch, be ready.”

“I’ve spent countless days and nights in the wild with the thought of this as my only comfort, I couldn’t be more ready.” I snarl, chuckling at the way he blushes at my open admission.

He sits with a wide stance, ready to put some real strength into his arms to push it in. I feel the chilly kiss of the glass against my tender hole, and my tongue hisses between my teeth, tasting the crisp, humid air in the room.

“Oh, so buttery and slick. Not to brag, but I’ve done quite a good job of licking you open - it won’t be a problem at all! Just enjoy it, darling.”

The press is steady and relentless, but there’s no burn behind it, save for the tingle of the oil. The rim gives way easily, and I can relish the way he holds the plug aloft, just the slight taper of the round, ballooning tip sliding in and out, teasing. I bear down on it, helpless to control my reaction.

“Oh, dear, I can see inside of you through the glass. What a beautiful red flower you got, hidden there. Come on, take some more for Uncle Crassius. I do so love watching you work for it.” he threatens, pulling the plug out again, and I have to chase after it, scooting backwards to find the tip and directing it towards my wanting hole again if I want it in me.

Once my puffy rim hits the mark - now the glass has gone warmer, but its hard surface still gives me a startle when it breaches me again - Crassius resumes his efforts, twice as vicious.

Now, the plug enters me to the widest point, and I feel my body instinctively sucking it in, grasping at it to let it slide deep inside. Or at least, that’s what I would like to do. Instead, with even more control on his grasp over the flared base of the plug, Crassius keeps the intrusion at bay, and tortures me with seesaw motions - back and forth around the width of the plug.

I’m close to begging him for mercy, but before I can use my words to do so, I suddenly feel his tongue running around the circumference of the glass, hot and wet. I feel spit dripping down the back of my thigh, and he moans and hums around the plug, like he’s enjoying a fine meal. Speechless, I let loose a strangled guttural moan, instead.

“Ahhh, oh, Cr- Crassiusss!” My mouth agape, my eyes closed in bliss, it’s finally too much. I feel my prick spend as the orgasm ravages through me, and in short order the sheets under my body are wet with my thin release. Crassius chuckles, having heard the broken pitch of my voice and having felt my hole pulse in time with my spurting.

“My my, dumpling. Looks like you had something for me, as well.” He kneels lower, bent like a stalking beast, paunch almost touching the mattress, and I look under me and see him. The hand not busy holding the plug in place is swiping through the mess I made, gathering as much of my seed as possible between sticky fingers.

In a truly lecherous display, he licks each and every digit, savoring the foreign taste of Argonian semen. My diet hasn’t been anything to write home about - quite the contrary - so I have little to offer in the way of density and flavor, but he makes it seem like it’s the most delicious of syrups. He smacks his lips, before continuing “Ah, that’s the stuff! Now, where were we?”

My head lolling to the side, I am pliant and spent, unable to resist his final torture. Luckily, he sees fit to give me a break, and with a quick and painless, practiced motion gives the plug the final nudge. Swiftly, the widest point disappears inside, leaving me to shiver and moan at the sensation.

“There, my beautiful muse.” he praises fondly, gently twisting the plug to make sure it doesn’t chafe. My hole is well oiled, and Crassius’ seed will do its part in keeping me wet until tonight; aside from the sheer weight and size of the toy, I feel sated and comfortable. Relaxed.

As soon as Crassius moves away from me, I lie down in an inelegant sprawl, only rolling to the side a little to use a hand to tuck my prick back in its sheath.

Crassius clumsily steps out of his underpants and loses his tunic, thrown and forgotten over the armchair in the corner.

He turns to face the dresser and starts snuffing out the dying candles. In the remaining light, I appreciate the curve of his bottom, his legs, his delicate hands and meaty forearms. On my side, with my head in one hand and eyes half-lidded, I must look either sleepy or coy, but either way, when he looks at me it’s with a fond smile.

“Hopefully the house won’t burn down around us while we rest. Make room for me, dumpling.”

I scoot to my side and he walks around to his, getting in next to me before plucking the sheet from where I’d kicked it down the feet of the bed.

“How is it? Not too uncomfortable I would hope?” only one candle casts his visage in soft yellow tones, wavering with the flame. Concern written all over his features, I kiss him for a long, unhurried moment.

“Mm-mm, it’s just right. Everything I’ve dreamed.” I shake my head and tuck it under his chin.

He noses my frills and sniffs the top of my head with a sigh.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you terribly. I was worried - you know me.”

“I’m sorry. But I’m back now. I’m here. It’s alright.” I reassure him as much as I do myself. He’s here, he’s real. Not like the fevered nightmares and visions of one too many days without food or water, of poisoned wounds, of haunted nights. I’m safe, and so is he. We’re together in Vivec, at the Manor. In the post-coital bliss, with silence and the sound of our mingled breath the only things to fill the room, we snuggle and tightly embrace in the middle of the bed. Slowly, sounds from the outside start to filter back in. Attendants working around the house, loud quarrelling from Hlaalu Plaza, the distant rhythmic marching of armored Ordinators patrolling the balcony that runs around the quarter. Normality.

The intrusion in my backside is a fond reminder of things done and things to come, but for now, we want nothing more than to nap for a few hours, exchanging whispered tales and leisured kisses whenever exhaustion or exertion doesn’t reclaim me or him.

“I love you” occurs to us both at the same time, and there’s no shame in saying it out loud, his musical voice and my croaky drawl almost indiscernible one from the other, going to join the noises of the city around us, for all - and none - to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to do something consensual and wholesome with the in-game conversations that occur between Crassius and a Male Nerevarine. Considering Crassius' fondness for Argonian 'literature', I had the grand idea to make him fall for an Argonian Nerevarine, and for him to be in love with Crassius as well.  
> It's self-indulgent (inspired by my own Argonian Nerevarine monk, Stands-in-Swamps), but I hope you liked it! Leave a comment to tell me what you think of this weird little fic (and to let me know if you'd like to see more of them)!


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